Keep You Safe

by Rona Halsall

  She can feel Harry’s presence and her heart starts to race. Not long now. Not long.

  ‘Here already,’ Jack says as he starts to gather his stuff together. ‘You didn’t tell me… where are you heading?’

  ‘Not sure yet.’ She picks up her holdall, watching the harbour get closer, itching to get off the boat now. ‘No real plans.’

  He unzips a pocket in his backpack and pulls out a pen, rummages around for something to write on.

  ‘Here’s my number.’ He scrawls figures on the back of a till receipt. ‘And this is where we’re doing the gig tonight. The Centenary Centre in Peel. Come along, eight o’clock. I’ll tell them on the door to look out for you.’

  The paper flutters in the wind as he passes it to her and she snatches at it before it’s blown away, tucks it in her pocket. I don’t have time for gigs, she thinks, as the tune of the engines changes and the ferry starts reversing towards the loading bay, but she gives him a quick smile of thanks. Then the call comes for drivers to re-join their vehicles and she waves her goodbye and dashes down the stairs ahead of him.

  ‘Incog-bloody-nito, you useless cow,’ she mutters under her breath as she gets into the car she has borrowed, annoyed now that she let her guard slip and at least one person on the boat has had a really good look at her. He wasn’t taking much notice, she tells herself. Distracted by the gig. It’ll be fine.

  The weight of her mission settles on her shoulders and she jiggles in her seat, fingers drumming on the steering wheel as she waits for her turn to leave the boat. Just the thought of seeing Harry after all this time leaves her breathless and she is drawn to him with a gravitational pull that is as old as time. Nothing is going to stop her. She has to take the threats to Harry’s life seriously, doesn’t she? Even if nobody else will.

  In her imaginings, Elena, the nanny, opens the door, Harry by her side. Elena would still be there, she was sure, because Tom wouldn’t cope on his own and he never stopped telling Natalie how brilliant he thought she was. Tom is still at work. His parents are abroad. Harry’s eyes widen when he sees her, his face alight with excitement. He knows straight away who Natalie is and runs to her, throws his little arms around her neck and they hold each other tight, neither of them wanting to let go.

  He would come with her, just to the playground; she’d tell Elena, no need for her to join them. And they’d make their escape, in a yacht that was ready and waiting in the harbour and they’d sail away, down past France and Spain, through the Mediterranean until they landed in Turkish-run Northern Cyprus, the latest hotspot for fugitives, so she’d heard, to start their new life.

  Of course, it won’t work out that way. It would be the perfect plan, but it’s an obvious fantasy. There is an Irish fishing boat that will take her to Larne, though, and from there she will be picked up by an ex-convict friend and taken to Connemara, where she has the use of a holiday cottage for the rest of the summer, while she sorts out the details of her long-term plan. The fishing boat is her only real hope of escaping undetected, given that the official means of transport off the island, such as planes and ferries, would be policed if a child went missing, and out of the question. She has the contact details of the skipper, who is primed and ready to pick her up and she still has a few thousand left from her divorce settlement. More than enough to pay her way.

  The bones of her plan are there, but the timing is critical, the main sticking point being that the fishing boat will arrive in two days’ time to land its catch and will be going back to Ireland the following day. After that, her chance to get Harry to safety will have gone.

  Natalie’s hands tighten round the steering wheel.

  Three days. That’s all I’ve got.

  Two

  Now

  So. It begins.

  I know as soon as the phone rings, feel my body tense for some reason. A premonition, if you like.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to the woman on the other end of the line. ‘Can you say that again, please. A bit more slowly.’ She has an accent and speaks so fast the words blur together into one shrill noise that makes me wince.

  I hear her take a breath. ‘Natalie Wilson,’ she says, enunciating each syllable, ‘has been released from prison.’

  I knew it, really, because there’d be no other reason for her to ring me. I’m hot, run my finger round my collar to loosen it from my throat. This is too soon. Two months too soon.

  ‘So, where is she?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know exactly. I just saw her leave. Yesterday that was. Thought she was going to court or something. Then this morning, I didn’t see her, so I checked on the list and found out she’d been released.’

  Yesterday? My fist clenches around the phone, my patience a thin veneer. She could be anywhere by now. What is the point of knowing that she’s been released if I don’t know where she is?

  ‘Can you find out?’ I try not to sound sarcastic.

  The woman breathes out, a big huff that crackles in my ear.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  If she was in the room with me I’d slap her. I thought she had more to her than this. Did I choose the wrong prison officer? I loosen my jaw as my brain clicks into gear.

  ‘I would be very grateful,’ I say. ‘Five hundred pounds more grateful than I am already, if you could give me her exact location. Quickly. Like today.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she says. Then whispers, ‘I’ve got to go.’

  She hangs up.

  I stare at the phone, my heart racing as though I’m running, thumping so hard I can feel my body vibrating.

  The hunt is on.

  Three

  Then

  The last time Natalie saw her son was three years, four months and five days ago, when he had just turned eight months old.

  They were in their home on the Wirral, located in an area favoured by Merseyside footballers, financiers and assorted celebrities. It was just after seven o’clock on a Tuesday evening when she heard the knock at the door, firm and insistent, making her jump. She made a mental note to ask Tom once again if they could replace the knocker with a doorbell, something that made a softer sound, a tune maybe, that wouldn’t startle her quite so much.

  ‘Tom, can you get that?’ she called from the family bathroom, a room that was the same size as the lounge had been in her childhood home. In her opinion, it was the best room in their newly built house, one that she’d helped to design, insisting that it should be child-friendly. A tiled mural of sea creatures ran along one wall above a double-ended bath, rounded fittings everywhere, no sharp corners to bang little heads, cushioned flooring underfoot. It was a cheerful room, playful in its decoration and fixtures, quite different from the rest of the house, which, in all honesty, was more to Tom’s taste than hers.

  She wrapped Harry in a towel, rubbed his downy hair and blew raspberries on his chubby tummy, making him squirm and giggle. It was her favourite time of day, the one time when she could properly relax, made all the more precious now that she was back at work. She loved the warmth of his little body next to hers, his delicious sweet aroma, the feel of his peachy skin, soft against her face.

  The door knocker thumped again, this time harder, louder, impatient. Who on earth could it be? They rarely had visitors and those that did come were always expected, her husband being a man who didn’t like surprises.

  ‘Tom!’ she shouted, louder this time. ‘Can you get the door, please?’

  Maybe it was the lack of a ‘please’ that had prevented him from responding the first time round. He was a stickler for proper manners, drilled into him at boarding school, he said, whereas her upbringing had been more slapdash in that department.

  She heard footsteps, the click of the front door opening, the murmur of voices. A little while later there was a thump, thump, thump on the stairs, and Tom appeared at the bathroom door. He came inside, closed the door behind him, a frown on his face. Handsome, she’d always thought, in a neat and tidy way. His jaw worked from side to
side, as he chewed on his words, getting ready to spit them at her. She tensed, fingers fumbling with the poppers on Harry’s baby suit, struggling to finish the job as she wondered what she’d done wrong this time.

  Natalie knew that she hadn’t been easy to live with in recent months, but surely she was allowed a little leeway, after the trauma of Harry’s birth and then his illness, which had dragged on for months. She was allowed to be tired, wasn’t she? A little tetchy at times. Forgetful. Struggling to settle in back at work when her mind was at home with her son. Wasn’t that all part and parcel of having a new baby?

  She flashed Tom her best smile and wondered if they could ever get back to the way they used to be, when she was the centre of his world. He used to buy her presents, bring flowers, take her out for lavish dinners. Tell her she was beautiful, perfect, that he loved her. But that was years ago now, and such a faint memory that she wondered if she’d imagined it all.

  ‘Nearly finished.’ She forced a lightness into her voice and gathered Harry into her arms, kissing his cheek and giving him Mr Bunny, a toy that he never allowed far from his grasp.

  ‘Natalie,’ Tom hissed, blond eyebrows joined as his frown deepened. ‘What have you done now?’

  She stopped and stared at him. A chill tip-toed down her spine. What had she done? She searched her memory, but nothing came to mind, nothing that would get him this cross anyway.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said, voice quivering, as she got to her feet, Harry clasped to her chest like a shield.

  ‘The police are downstairs.’ She could see now that it wasn’t just anger in his eyes; there was a glint of something else. Beads of sweat were visible on his brow. Natalie swallowed, her heart beating faster as his stare bored into her, drilling for the truth. ‘They want to talk to you.’ He folded his arms across his chest, leant against the door. ‘You need to tell me. Why are they here?’

  ‘What?’ She clasped Harry tighter, defiance in her voice. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘What weird stuff have you been up to now?’

  She stepped back, his words striking her with the force of a slap. Her mind frantically sifted through her actions over the last few days, but her memories were so blurry, it was hard to know what was real and what was daydreaming.

  ‘What do you mean, weird stuff?’

  ‘I mean, like ordering that bloody great BMW, which you say you can’t remember buying. Or sending five thousand pounds, which we can’t afford, to Syrian refugees. You say you can’t remember doing that either. So, what the hell else have you done that you “can’t remember”?’

  His voice was scathing, his fingers putting inverted commas round the end of the sentence, making it clear he thought she was lying. But it was true. She had no recollection of doing those things, although she must have done, because they had really happened. The donation had been paid for with her card, the car signed for with her signature.

  She’d been living in a strange world since Harry had been born, doing things she couldn’t remember, for reasons she couldn’t fathom. Was she going mad? This was not a concern she could possibly admit to a health visitor or doctor, and definitely not to her husband, her hope being that these blanks in her memory were merely a combination of tiredness and hormones, that everything would settle down. In the meantime, she was very careful about every pound she spent, compulsively viewing her bank transactions to reassure herself that she hadn’t done anything stupid. And recently, she was sure that she hadn’t.

  ‘Have you walked out of a shop without paying? Stolen something? Is this why the police are standing in my hallway?’

  She buried her face in Harry’s neck, not able to look at Tom’s accusing stare.

  ‘You didn’t hit someone with the car and not stop, did you?’

  Her head snapped up. How dare he suggest such a thing?

  ‘No! No! I haven’t done anything.’ She glared at him, a man she no longer seemed to know, more distant from her by the day.

  His face was going red and she could sense his anger building, noticed his hands clenched into fists by his sides. He wouldn’t hit her, she reassured herself as she backed away, but knew that he wanted to, could see it in his eyes. Harry started to cry and she realised she was crushing him. Tears pricked at her eyes, as she cooed to her son, who sobbed and snuffled while she rubbed his back.

  Maybe I haven’t done anything. Maybe there’s been an accident.

  The thought made her freeze.

  Her heart skipped a beat as the faces of her family flickered through her mind; mother, stepfather, absent father, brother. She clutched the towel rail to hold her world steady.

  ‘Mr Wilson?’ A voice floated up the stairs. ‘Mr Wilson?’

  Tom opened the door, strode towards her and took Harry from her arms.

  ‘I just hope for your sake this is not another of your little attention-seeking stunts.’

  His words pierced through her, shards of venom, delivered in his clipped public-school tones, making him sound like he was in the right. He nodded towards the door as Harry looked at her, clearly confused and on the verge of a protest. ‘They’re waiting. You better go and see what they want.’ He cuddled the child to him, swaying from side to side to try and stop the imminent wail. ‘I can put Harry to bed.’

  Her mind worked through the possibilities as she hurried down the landing, sure that it had been years since she’d done anything illegal. Not since she’d met Tom, in fact. That meant it had to be an accident, didn’t it? She stopped for a moment, trying to calm herself, before she made her way down the long, curving sweep of the stairs.

  A squat policeman, rugby player type, all shoulder muscles and no neck, looked up as she headed towards him, pale-grey eyes following her until she got to the bottom step. She licked her lips, swallowed. His face was blank, no sympathetic looks and she dared to hope. His partner was a severe-looking woman in her forties, grey hair scraped back from an angular face. She had a misshapen nose, which had obviously been broken at some point and a forehead covered in squiggly lines, like a reporter’s notepad.

  ‘Mrs Natalie Wilson?’ she asked in a nasal Liverpudlian twang.

  Natalie nodded and teetered on the last step, dreading what she might hear if she went any further.

  ‘We would like you to accompany us to the station,’ the policewoman said. ‘Our colleagues would like to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Questions?’ Natalie let out a long breath. Thank God. Nobody’s dead.

  ‘We can explain everything at the station,’ the policewoman said.

  ‘Explain what?’ Natalie frowned.

  ‘There are some queries about a client you have been dealing with. At Wilson Wealth Management,’ the young policeman said. ‘That’s where you work, isn’t it?’ His partner frowned and flashed him a look that told him to shut up.

  ‘What sort of queries?’ Natalie’s hand tangled in her hair, pulling hard. ‘I’ve only been back from maternity leave for a couple of months. I’m just getting back into the swing of things.’ She looked up the stairs. ‘It’s my husband’s business. Perhaps you need to speak to him if there’s a problem at work.’

  ‘Save all that for when we get to the station,’ the policewoman said, moving towards her, as the policeman opened the front door.

  ‘But… my husband… He can sort this out, no need for me to go anywhere.’ She glanced up the stairs again, willing Tom to appear, heart galloping so fast that she started to feel dizzy. She grabbed hold of the banister to steady herself, root herself to her home.

  ‘It may just be a mix-up, a misunderstanding,’ the policewoman said, in a gentler tone. ‘But you need to come to the station so we can sort it out.’

  ‘Tom!’ Natalie shouted as the policewoman got hold of her elbow, fingers digging into Natalie’s arm. ‘Tom!’ she shrieked, so loud it hurt the back of her throat. Surely, he could hear?

  However benign the policewoman tried to make it sound, Natalie knew something was very wrong. She di
dn’t want to go, couldn’t bear to leave Harry. Tom hadn’t much of a clue about his routine. He’d cry. The nanny, Elena, was out for the evening. Tom wouldn’t cope. Natalie clung to the banister, tried to resist, but she had a police officer at each elbow now. They prised her fingers from the wooden rail and as much as she writhed, Natalie had no chance of escape.

  She was bundled into the back of a police car and turned to see Tom standing at the window of Harry’s bedroom. In her mind, she could hear Harry’s cries, his bedtime routine being a thing of precision and she knew he wouldn’t settle without her there to sing him to sleep. Her hands tugged at a door handle that refused to work.

  ‘My son, he needs me!’ she shouted at the police officers sitting in front of her, but they didn’t turn their heads.

  ‘Calm down, madam, or we’ll have to cuff you,’ the squat policeman said, as he started the car.

  She banged on the window, shouted Tom’s name, but he obviously couldn’t hear her. A sob caught in her throat as she watched her house recede into the distance.

  Four

  Now

  It is fortunate that Natalie has a good memory for the geography of places and it doesn’t take her long to navigate through the town centre towards the house that is owned by Tom’s parents. She remembers each turn with a satisfied ‘aha’. Nearly there, nearly there.

  Tonight, her plan is to do a bit of reconnaissance. A bit of snooping round the house, remind herself of entrances, exits and the lie of the land. Hopefully, she’ll get a glimpse of Harry. The thought of seeing him is growing inside her, filling her up, making her heart thump so hard her body shakes with each beat. She would like to drive faster, but is careful to stick to the speed limit, constantly checking her rear-view mirror, just to be sure that she’s not being followed.